


Well Upon Our Way

by fatal_drum



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Hannibal, Fisting, Honeymoon, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Vore Imagery, Murder Husbands in Cuba, Not the healthiest relationship, Possessive Behavior, Post-Finale, Romance, Switching, Top Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 10:19:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10384479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: The thing that surprises Will most about sleeping with Hannibal is howhungryhe is for it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many things to [inter-spem-et-metum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inter_spem_et_metum)/[@blind-inviting-alleys](http://blind-inviting-alleys.tumblr.com) for being a wonderful beta and cheerleader. She made this so much better. 
> 
> At some point, I decided this fandom didn't have enough fisting. 
> 
> I would be remiss if I didn't mention this inspiring, unromantically titled [song by Tool](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-IR9oNzdrA), which I've loved for years.

The thing that surprises Will most about sleeping with Hannibal is how _hungry_ he is for it. Hannibal's hands and mouth seem to be everywhere at once, licking, sucking, biting, stroking, until Will is covered in saliva, sweat, and come.

Will is not used to this level of attention. Before, he found himself counting the minutes, keeping score so that he never owed more than he was given, gripping the sheets to keep himself from thrusting into a warm, wet mouth.

Hannibal blows away every one of his frivolous concerns. His eyes gleam as he takes Will apart with his lips and tongue, until Will isn't sure who's getting off on it more. The first time Will apologizes for taking too long and offers to stop, Hannibal pins his hips and takes him deep into his throat, his lips brushing the base of his cock, deeper than anyone's ever taken him. He cries out and grips Hannibal's shoulders so tightly, his nails leave bruises in his tanned skin. Hannibal simply hums, stroking Will's thighs as he sucks contentedly. Afterward, Will is too boneless and sated to think about repaying him, though he would say the hour he spends on his knees later more than makes up for it.

He should feel ashamed, he thinks; but he's looked for that emotion and can't find it anymore, too high on the giddy sensation of _owning_ , of _being owned_. After years of screaming, his conscience has finally fallen silent.

His favorite moments are the ones when Hannibal lets his guard down, drops the pretense of dignity and simply enjoys what is done to him. Will learns the place on the back of his neck that makes him hiss when bitten, discovers the light, teasing rhythm that makes Hannibal thrust helplessly against his hand.

One night, he has Hannibal on his stomach, tracing spit-slick fingers over his hole while he scrapes his teeth against the back of his neck. Hannibal's hips rock back against him.

“You're so greedy,” Will whispers, brushing his lips across his ear.

“Does that surprise you?” Hannibal asks, breathless. He twists to look at him, eyes dark and full of regarding.

Will circles a finger over Hannibal's entrance, testing the give with his fingertip. Hannibal clenches but holds still. Something hot and dark flares in Will's chest.

“I rearranged my entire life to have you in it,” Hannibal says.

“You rearranged me, too.”

“I did.” Hannibal licks his lips, slowly. “I would say we deserve each other, at this point.”

Without warning, Will plunges two fingers inside, all the way to the knuckle. Hannibal makes a sound that's halfway between shock and pleasure, arching his spine to take in every last inch. Will thrusts lazily, though the slide of spit isn't quite enough to make it easy.

“Would you beg me?” Will asks, teasing a third finger against his rim. Hannibal tightens, but spreads his legs wider, gripping the sheets.

“I would do more than beg. I would build you an altar.” Hannibal's eyes squeeze shut as Will pushes deeper, his expression almost painful in its intensity. “I would bring you the hearts of everyone who ever wronged you, used you for your mind or your heart or your beauty, and burn them. The God of the Old Testament found sweet savoring in sacrifices of flesh.”

“You would do that for fun.” Will withdraws until he just barely breaches Hannibal, circling to feel the tight muscle from the inside. Hannibal swallows with a choked sound.

“What would you have of me, then?”

Will leans in so his lips brush the shell of Hannibal's ear. “I want you to say please,” he whispers.

The word spills from Hannibal's lips, and Will slides down to lick the place where his hand joins Hannibal's body, coating his fingers and Hannibal's hole with his tongue. Hannibal's legs squeeze around him, heels digging into his back, trapping him between his thighs. Will lets himself be trapped, sinking his teeth into the firm curve of his ass until his teeth leave bruises.

When he slips another finger into Hannibal, he's surprised to hear him growl, _“More.”_ Swallowing, he slides a fourth finger into his stretched hole. Sweat gleams across Hannibal's back.

“God, you love this, don't you?” Will asks, watching his fingers disappear into Hannibal's body. It's more than he's ever seen Hannibal take, but he shows no sign of pain, only arches back into Will's hand. “You'd take my whole fist, wouldn't you? You'd take it, and you'd ask me for more.”

“Yes,” Hannibal pants.

The blunt answer goes straight to Will's cock, and suddenly his fingers aren't enough. He pulls out of Hannibal too quickly and lines their bodies together, sinking into him with a groan. Hannibal pushes back against him, rising onto his hands and knees to meet each thrust. Will's hands grip his hips, caging him.

Will comes, remembering the sight of his fingers disappearing into Hannibal's body, and he bites his lip until he tastes blood.

 

* * *

 

Will spends most days on the docks, repairing engines and cleaning water scale from propellers. He lets the fishermen pay him in trade, and charges tourists out the ass. He feeds some of the fish he catches in his off time to the stray dogs that wander the pier. The rest he takes home to his “wife,” though there's real respect in their eyes when Hannibal visits him at the docks. Will isn't sure how much of it comes from the times he's shared his lunch, and how much from Hannibal's rumored mob connections. He really can't blame them, with the suits.

It's the kind of simple life he never thought he'd have. Even Jack Crawford would've had trouble recognizing him as the old Will Graham. He lets his beard grow to cover the scar on his cheek. The Cuban sun brings a golden shine to his hair and bronze to his skin. Most importantly, he's lost the hunted expression from his FBI days—or so Hannibal tells him.

Time here has a suspended quality, a dreamlike feeling of unreality. Most days, he feels something like contentment.

He knows it won't last.

It _can't_ last.

In the morning, Will is elbow-deep in a mess of carburetor spark plugs, staring at the black grease under his fingernails and replaying the scene in his head: Hannibal splayed across their Egyptian cotton sheets, spine arched as he takes Will's fingers. He'd been so tight around him. Will imagines going further, slipping in his thumb, breaching Hannibal with the widest part of his hand. He imagines Hannibal's face as he's penetrated—tensing, then slackening with pleasure, as he accepts everything Will has to give him.

He feels his cock stirring and swallows, stopping himself before he gives himself an erection on the dock, surrounded by tourists and fishermen.

 

* * *

 

That night, they share a bottle of _vino de Rioja_ over fresh wild greens and _paella de marisco._ Their diet tends toward seafood these days.

They haven't discussed meat.

The silence, usually companionable, feels thick to Will. He finds himself fidgeting, tapping the edge of the table until Hannibal raises an eyebrow.

“Did you mean it?” Will blurts out.

“I'm afraid you will have to be more specific.” Hannibal doesn't smile, but his eyes crinkle at the edges. Strange to think Will once found him hard to read.

“Last night.” Will licks his lips, suddenly self-conscious. “When I had my fingers in you. You seemed to... enjoy it. A lot.”

“I enjoy all the things we do together. I daresay you enjoy them, too.”

“You were so hungry for it,” Will continues, recklessly. “Like you couldn't get enough. Like you would swallow me whole if I gave you the chance—bones and all.”

It's an image that used to haunt his dreams: Hannibal unhinging his jaw like a python, consuming him in one long, single swallow. He would've called it a nightmare, but the main emotion he felt upon waking was guilt, not fear. He had enjoyed being nestled behind Hannibal's ribs, safe in the hot darkness of his body.

Hannibal's eyes gleam. “It would not be the first time such a thought has crossed my mind.”

Will fortifies himself with a sip of wine before he speaks again.

“It seemed like you would take my whole fist if you had the chance,” he says. “You said you would.”

Surprise flickers across Hannibal's face.

“Is that true?” Will asks.

“Are you asking my preference or my permission?”

“Both.”

Hannibal's eyes rake over his face, searching for something. What, Will doesn't know.

“Have you ever done such a thing?”

“No,” Will admits. “You would be my first.”

Hannibal's pupils dilate. The rest of him remains utterly still. Will licks his lips and watches the heat build behind Hannibal's eyes.

“If you asked me for a knife to remove the heart from my chest,” Hannibal says, “I would give it to you. Gladly.”

Will reaches across the table to press his palm to Hannibal's chest. “I know you would. You would like it, wouldn't you? Having me so deep inside you. Letting me cradle your heart between my fingers. Would you find it comforting?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, his eyes never leaving his face. The sight makes Will's chest tighten. It's dangerous, he thinks, to be desired this much. Dangerous for _both_ of them.

“Do you want it?” Will asks. “My fist, inside of you?”

“I want everything you will give to me, and more.”

Will is startled by the scrape of his own chair across the floor; he finds himself pushing Hannibal back so he can straddle his lap, hands twisting into his hair as he devours his mouth. Hannibal tastes like saffron and peppers mixed with something that's uniquely _him_ , a flavor he could spend his whole life chasing. Hannibal's hands cup his ass, and Will grinds down against him, suddenly, _blindingly_ hard.

Hannibal stands, setting Will on the edge of the table and sweeping the dishes away with a careless arm. They shatter on the floor, and Will finds himself flat on his back, Hannibal yanking down his trousers and underwear so his bare ass is resting on the polished wood.

Something cold drips down between his legs—the oil from the salad, he realizes—before he feels the head of Hannibal's cock pushing against his hole. Will groans, impatient, and hooks his legs around Hannibal's waist to pull him in. The stretch is delicious, rough and perfect and still _not enough_. Hannibal grips his hips with tented fingertips, pulling him closer as he looms over his body.

“The things you do to my self-control,” Hannibal whispers raggedly, hips snapping forward. Will snarls and pulls him down for a kiss.

Their coupling is fast and desperate, made sharp by teeth and nails. Will comes with his heels digging into Hannibal's back, growling encouragement until Hannibal spills inside him.

“Tomorrow night, if that is agreeable to you,” Hannibal murmurs against his shoulder, with a hot exhale. “There are some items I need to procure.”

Will nods wordlessly and pulls Hannibal closer, surrounded by the scattered remains of their dinner and a spreading pool of wine, red as blood.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Will finds himself too restless to handle the slow pace of his work. None of his repairs are urgent, so he leaves with a muttered _hasta luego_ to the other men. He runs the _Malecón,_ breathing the salt air and letting the sounds of the bustling, early crowd wash over him. The sun beats down hot on the back of his neck, sending fat drops of sweat sliding down his spine.

Afterwards, he treats himself to a six-pack of Bucanero, because if anything can calm his nerves, it's cheap beer. He presses the black can to his forehead, reveling in the cold condensation.

He spends the afternoon helping a scarred fisherman repair his nets. The old man, one of the regulars, rarely speaks and seldom makes eye contact. His gnarled hands are missing three fingers. Will hasn't asked.

Together, they finish off the six-pack in silence as the nets come together. He doesn't argue when the old man pays him in fresh red snapper. If there's anything he's learned, it's that no one here wants charity.

When he's decided enough time has passed that he won't look too eager hanging around the house, he finally heads home.

Hannibal takes the snapper with a delighted expression, murmuring something that sounds like _poisson en papillote._ Will's stomach clenches at how incredibly domestic it feels.

 _How long_ can _this last?_ he wonders. Will pushes the thought away before it can sink too deep inside him, and excuses himself to the shower.

Dinner stretches on for what seems like an eternity. Hannibal inquires politely about his day, and Will _doesn't_ say, _I was so distracted I dropped a wrench in the harbor._ Or, _this dinner is delicious but I would really like to fuck you now_. It's a game between them, each waiting for the other to give. Hannibal's expression gradually shifts from cordial to something heavier and almost predatory.

“I will take my shower now,” Hannibal says, looking him directly in the eye. “It would please me to find you naked in the bedroom when I am finished.”

A shiver of anticipation crawls down Will's spine and settles in the pit of his stomach. He nods in acknowledgement, licking his lips in the way he knows drives Hannibal to distraction.

When Hannibal has gone, he takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his face, trying to compose himself. He hears the shower running, pictures Hannibal stripping efficiently, his body hard from hours of swimming. The man is fiercely private about his grooming rituals, preferring to appear before Will clean and coiffed. It's easy to imagine him bending under the hot spray, reaching to finger himself open... Will digs his nails into his thigh until his erection recedes.

Looking down at his hand, he realizes there's something he's forgotten. He walks back into the kitchen to soap his hands thoroughly with the ridiculous rosemary-lemon scented soap Hannibal keeps by the sink, scrubbing under his nails. Afterwards, he finds a pair of clippers and trims them short.

In the bedroom he finds towels, nitrile gloves, and a jar of creamy white coconut oil. Naturally, the oil is a fancy brand he's never heard of, with all kinds of adjectives that suggest a hefty price tag. _Only the best for Hannibal's ass,_ he thinks.

Then he hears the door open behind him, and his mouth goes dry.

Hannibal's hair is wet, falling over his eyes and sending drops of water down his tanned chest to the towel tucked around his hips. Will swallows hard.

“You have been very patient today,” Hannibal says, as if he were doing an enormous favor for Will. There is none of the urgency from last night, and for a second he wonders if he imagined Hannibal's ravenous expression.

“I intend to take my time,” Will replies, watching Hannibal's face as he opens his shirt one button at a time. The other man's gaze follows his hands as he drops the shirt on the floor and reaches down to adjust his cock in his pants.

Hannibal crosses the room with slow, measured steps, until his chest almost touches Will's own. His lips brush Will's more softly than they ever have before. The tenderness in the touch is nearly painful. Will sighs as Hannibal works his hand between them, kneading his cock through his trousers.

“I thought I would get used to this,” he murmurs against Hannibal's neck. He runs his hands under the towel to cup Hannibal's ass, separating his cheeks with his fingers.

“I have no intention of allowing you to become 'used' to me.”

“Get on the bed,” Will says, squeezing firmly.

Hannibal drapes the towel across the bed and settles on his back, spreading his legs. He somehow manages to make the position look dignified as he watches Will approach, head resting on his arm, long legs akimbo.

Will places a hand on each of Hannibal's calves, squeezing the firm muscle before pulling his legs farther apart. His palms slide up to his knees, his thighs, kneading the muscled flesh. He ignores Hannibal's half-hard cock, instead rubbing wide circles on his thighs with his hands.

He follows the motions with his mouth, pressing hard kisses to the skin. His teeth graze the place where Hannibal's thigh joins his pelvis. The femoral artery runs close here. Will imagines the hot pulse of blood beneath his lips.

It strikes him that this is a uniquely vulnerable position, but not as vulnerable as the one he has planned. He wonders if Hannibal is allowing this because he thinks himself invulnerable, or if he genuinely _trusts_ Will. Perhaps he doesn't care, either way. Will remembers the look in Hannibal's eyes as they'd stood on the cliff, and feels something cold travel up his spine. He takes a deep breath and pushes the thought aside.

He parts Hannibal's cheeks with his thumbs and breathes over the tender skin. Hannibal twitches faintly, but gives no other sign of being affected.

This has always been one of Will's favorite things to do in bed—to lose himself in the taste and heat of his partner's body, in the tremor and clench of thighs; no need for words or eye contact.

No need to disappoint them when he fails at both.

He shuts his eyes and licks Hannibal from the base of his spine to his perineum, letting his teeth catch the smooth skin behind his balls, before trailing down again to circle his hole.

“Did you think of me today?” Hannibal asks, his smooth voice belying the tension in his thighs.

Will dips the tip of his tongue inside, feeling the muscle twitch around his flesh before pulling back to blow on the damp skin. “What do you think?” He licks again, sloppy and wet.

“I like to imagine you did,” Hannibal says, hips jutting toward Will's mouth. Will wraps his arms around Hannibal's thighs, pulling him closer. “I like to imagine you working in the sun, talking to the men and women around you, while your mind is here with me in this bed.”

“It's not enough that I live with you, sleep in your bed, _fuck_ you—” Will punctuates his statement by pushing his thumb against the tight muscle of Hannibal's hole, testing its give. “You want me to think of you, even when you're not there.”

“Yes.” Hannibal sighs as Will withdraws, leaving him empty.

“You'd do anything to get more of me, wouldn't you?”

“I already have.”

“What _wouldn't_ you let me do?” Will pulls a glove over his hand and opens the jar of oil, releasing a faint sweetness into the air. The oil is soft in the warm room, slickening as he works it between his gloved fingers.

“You'd let me hurt you, wouldn't you?” Will slides his fingers between Hannibal's legs, letting the oil warm against his skin until it drips.

“I would let you eat me raw.” Hannibal tips his head back, baring his throat. “Have you ever felt the last beats of a heart in your palm? There would be poetry in the experience. Your face would be the last thing I saw, your touch the last I felt.”

Will dips his fingers back into the jar, scooping up more of the creamy substance. The heat from Hannibal's body melts it, making a slippery mess of his clean skin.

“Would you let me leave?”

Hannibal's eyes widen before he can stop them. “I let you leave once already.”

“You knew I would come back.” Will pushes two fingers in, before withdrawing to circle his entrance. Hannibal's hips rock back against his hand, seeking to be filled again. His expression is unreadable.

“You and I are bound irrevocably. Conjoined, as you said.” Hannibal's eyes slide shut. “Even _you_ weren't sure we could survive separation.”

“That's not what I asked.”

Hannibal groans as Will plunges his fingers back in, all the way to the knuckles.

“No,” he snarls, baring his teeth. “Never again. I would kill us both first.” He stills, attempting to maintain control of his expression. “As would you. That is why you tried to drown us, is it not?”

Will realizes, suddenly, that this is exactly what he needed to hear. He lunges for Hannibal's face, gripping his hair between his ungloved fingers and pulling him in for a rough, aching kiss. Oil smears between their bodies and onto Will's clothes as Hannibal bites his lip and licks into his mouth.

Hannibal pulls him in by his hips, grinding their erections together, skin against coarse fabric. Will groans against Hannibal's mouth.

“Greedy boy,” Hannibal murmurs.

“You love it.”

Hannibal opens his mouth to reply, but Will silences him with another hard kiss, sliding his hand down between his parted thighs. Hannibal's hips tilt to accept him, to take the easy slide of his fingers as he fucks him. A low sound escapes Hannibal's mouth as Will slips a third finger inside.

“Have you ever done this before?”

“No,” Hannibal replies. His answer makes heat curl in Will's belly as he adds a fourth finger, feeling the muscle clench tightly around him. “I never wanted to, before.”

Will swallows hard and shuts his eyes against the images that come to mind. It takes all of his restraint not to plunge all the way in, forcing Hannibal to open for him. Instead, he strokes carefully, twisting his hand until the muscle gives way.

They're both breathing hard by the time his knuckles brush Hannibal's skin.

“Are you sure you want this?” Will asks, rubbing the tip of his thumb against Hannibal's stretched hole. He shudders and swallows, then nods.

Will's cock is so hard he can barely stand it, but he pushes the feeling aside. He licks his lips and uses his free hand to scoop up more oil, spreading it across his palm, his thumb, and the fever-hot skin surrounding him. Finally, he slides his palm into Hannibal's body, marveling at the tightness and heat that greets him. It seems impossible that he could fit more inside. He can't resist the urge to try.

“You feel so good,” Will murmurs. Hannibal twitches around him. “So warm and— _alive,_ around me.”

Hannibal's eyes, when he opens them, look almost black in the lamplight.

“I want more,” he growls, low.

“Then you'll have it.”

Will pulls out slowly. Hannibal hisses through his teeth as Will strokes the loose edges of his hole, taking a moment to add more oil. It drips onto the towel and smears along Hannibal's thighs.

With a trembling breath, Will joins his fingertips together and slides back in. The first inches come easily, but there's no getting around the thickness of his hand where it meets the knuckles. Hannibal's breath comes in stilted pants when he stops just short of the widest part.

“Can you take it?”

Hannibal swallows and licks his lips. “Slowly,” he says, a wild look rising in his eyes.

It's the closest he's ever come to asking for mercy, and Will's cock jumps as he twists his hand, sliding out gently and then back in again. With his free hand, he grasps Hannibal's cock, making him hiss and clench almost _painfully_ tight.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Hannibal shakes his head with a moan, parting his legs even further. The motion squeezes Will's hand.

Will's pants suddenly feel too tight. He fumbles, one-handed, to open his zipper, biting his lip as his cock comes free. Hannibal's eyes darken as Will strokes himself lightly, pushing into him another fraction of an inch with his hand.

“I'm going to come all over you,” Will says, his eyes fixed on the place where their bodies are joined together. “With my fist inside you. Your body will be full of me, and your skin will be covered in me, and you'll be _mine._ ”

“Do it,” Hannibal urges. “I will accept nothing less.”

It takes some effort, and they're both sweating by the time Will feels the thickest part of his hand slip into Hannibal's body. He swallows at the almost painful constriction. Hannibal is incredibly still, taking shallow breaths as Will presses in slowly.

“Hannibal—” Will begins.

“Don't you dare stop,” Hannibal snarls.

It is with a sense of unreality that Will watches the last part of his hand disappear into Hannibal's body. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Hannibal's eyes are closed when Will looks up, his expression as rapturous as a saint in the throes of martyrdom—a reverence that sweeps over them both. His body clenches again, and Will feels it over every inch of his hand, clamping so tight he half-expects to hear the crack of bones. He can't remember feeling more connected to another person—more full with their secrets—than he does now.

“How does it feel?”

“Full,” Hannibal says. “Stretched just short of breaking. Like you're touching parts of me that have never been touched. It—” He swallows. “It would not be the first time you did so.”

Will touches Hannibal's cock, and his eyes fly open, lips parting in an airless gasp. He carefully twists his hand inside Hannibal, until his whole body jerks.

Their eyes meet as Hannibal comes, gripping Will's hand like a vise. Will wastes no time in reaching for his own cock, which is so hard that he groans at the touch. All it takes is a few tight strokes before he comes all over Hannibal's skin, striping his thighs with ropes of pearl-white fluid.

When Will comes back to himself, he finds himself panting against Hannibal's upraised knee. He drops a kiss on the firm skin.

“Ready for me to move?”

Hannibal nods silently.

Getting his hand out is nearly as difficult as getting it in; Hannibal's body grips him, his stretched, abused hole twitching with each tiny movement. Hannibal's breath catches—the closest he will come to admitting discomfort. Finally, Will's fingers slide free.

Will strips the glove off and collapses against Hannibal's chest, careless of the mess they've made on the sheets. Hannibal's arms tug around him as Will buries his face in his neck.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Will mutters, taking a deep breath. “That was… fuck.”

“I am not sure if that is a summary of events, or a declaration of enjoyment.”

In lieu of a witty reply, Will nips Hannibal's shoulder. Hannibal runs a warm hand over his back in response.

“I liked that,” Will finally manages. “A lot.”

“I enjoyed it as well.”

“ _Enjoyed_ it?” Will snorts. “I don't think I've ever seen you come that hard. You nearly broke my hand.”

Hannibal hums in agreement, fingers twining in the hair at the base of Will's neck.

Will reaches behind him for another towel to wipe them down. Hannibal twitches when the soft cloth goes between his thighs. Will swallows, knowing it will be a while before Hannibal can take him again—either his cock _or_ his hand. He's willing to wait.

He settles against Hannibal's chest, letting the other man's heat soak into his skin. It should feel absurd to take comfort in a killer's embrace, in the heat of his body, the smell of sweat and come and the commingled scent that is uniquely _theirs_.

He wonders again how long this can last. If one day, he will wake drowning in his own blood—or worse, alone.

Right now, he can't bring himself to care. The uncertainty, he thinks, is something he can get used to.

Whatever happens, they will still have _this_.


End file.
